


Mark's Point

by LienidQueen



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: A Touch of Profanity, F/M, jk there's a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-12 22:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13556676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LienidQueen/pseuds/LienidQueen
Summary: Why is it that Mark doesn't get someone to love? Mark asks this, and reaction ensues. Rated T because of strong language because, well, Mark's pissed. Established Roger/Mimi*repost from FF*





	Mark's Point

Roger just kept packing his boxes- those stupid cardboard boxes made of more packing tape than cardboard. Why did he have to leave? He was only going down a floor- though by that logic Roger would be able to say, “I’m only going downstairs, Mark, what does it matter?”

Suddenly Mark was sick of it.

“Why the hell do you have to go?”

“What?” Roger looked up, confused.

“Why the hell does everyone get someone? Everyone except me?”

Roger just stood there, crouching next to his not-so-cardboard boxes, so Mark went on.

“Why is my only love my fucking camera? Why don’t I get a girl? Maureen has Joann, Tom has Angel-“

“- _Had_ Angel, and just ‘cause it’s been a few years doesn’t make it hurt Tom any less, so shut your face.” Roger’s finger twitched. Mark was awakening an anger Roger didn’t know he had.

Yeah, well, Tom _had_ Angel. At least he had someone, at some time. I’ve only had Maureen, and you sure as hell know how that turned out- she dumped me for Joann, dammit! And you.” Mark pointed an accusatory finger in Roger’s direction, who had now stood to his full height.

“You have fucking Mimi, your drug-addict stripper who only strips for you now. I bet you loved that she didn’t die three Christmases ago, ‘cause then you’d be as damn lonely as me, chillin’ out in this shitty apartment, trying to finish one fucking song, like I do with my God-damn films. I sit here every God-damn night I’m not shooting footage and listen to you two tell each other how much you fucking love each other and how you couldn’t live without the other. You know what, you should have. Mimi would have died that night- should have died that night, just so you could feel my pain.”

Mark went too far; he _knew_ he went too far, but he couldn’t stop himself. Mimi was the only thing that kept Roger grounded some days, and pushing him about her was a mistake.

Roger’s fist hit Mark’s jaw hard. Three times. His hand was calloused from years of guitar, making Mark wince.

Roger had never heard Mark talk like that- to anyone. He was used to “dependable Mark” and “focused Mark” and “relatable Mark”, not the Mark who tells you off.

Mark put his hand to his jaw and felt the pooling blood. And it hurt like hell. But when he looked at Roger, Mark’s feelings felt ridiculous- Roger had tears in his eyes and was running his other calloused hand through his hair as he crumpled to the ground. Mark’s anger broke, and he felt bad for pushing Roger to this.

“I don’t want to leave you flat,” Roger said quietly, but picked up one of his boxes and exited their industrial loft out the fire escape and down to Mimi’s apartment.

Mark sat down, hand still clutching his gushing jaw.

“I didn’t know you had that side of you,” Maureen said from behind him, and Mark’s anger flared up again.

“Go to hell, Maureen,” he said bitterly.

Her sunny disposition faltered for a moment.

“Who the hell are you?” she asked, almost in disbelief.

“Mark Cohen, your ex-boyfriend. Not to be confused with your ex- _girl_ friend Joann, who you dumped me for and who is currently your lady. You know, Mark Cohen, the guy you helplessly call every time you can’t work your shitty sound equipment, and I come. Every, fucking, time. Like a God-damn puppy dog. Because you were my girl. Back then.”

Maureen didn’t recognize the bitterness in his tone, but leaned down to kiss him anyway, because that was what she did to get herself out of sticky situations.

For a moment Mark was back in time, before Maureen kicked his heart with her stiletto boots. Back to kissing her on the stairs to their apartment, completely and totally in love. But then the bitterness fought back. He broke away.

“No. I don’t need your pity kisses like I’m one of your old fucking toys to go out with. Just leave me alone, you whore.”

Now Maureen’s face dropped completely to shock. Not through the break-up, not through Joann, had he ever called her a whore- anything less than “Maureen, sweetheart”.

“You’re not Mark,” she told him decidedly. “I don’t know who you are, but it sure as hell ain’t Mark.”

And she left through the sliding door.

Mark looked around the room, so empty all by himself.

"They all forgot,” he said to himself. “Happy fucking birthday to me.”

* * *

Damn, he had to get out of here. Jesus, why did he say that? Roger had been his best friend since ever, since Mark couldn’t remember. They’d gotten through a lot of shit together, and now Mark couldn’t even muster some happiness because for once, Roger’s life had been coming together. And it _had_ been coming together.

Roger had gotten a song deal for “One Song Glory”. His AIDS was getting better; not cured, never cured, but better. Manageable, some days. And then Mimi asked him to move in with her. The icing on the cake.

But Mark’s year? He didn’t even want to go there. Another year measured in heartbreak, in blind dates, in disappointment, and lonely cups of coffee. He’d biked a thousand miles getting a hundred miles of film, but he still couldn’t get a TV deal. He’d been set up with a thousand girls by JoAnn, Maureen, Mimi, and even Roger, but he still couldn’t find a girl who like him for all his quirks.

All that work and all that heart and where had he ended up? Sitting on the old busted sectional couch nursing his busted face with a bag of frozen peas on his face that he found in the back of the freezer.

Mark gingerly touched his nose. _Shit_ , he thought. No wonder Roger had the cracked knuckles: he broke Mark’s nose.

 _Well, it can’t be too bad_ , Mark thought, walking over to the chipped mirror in the corner. But looking in the mirror, it wasn’t that bad, it was worse.

His nose was broken with a big bump on the bridge, and a trickle of blood drooling out of one nostril. Under his left eye was some purple-black bruising in streaks, and a long red gash on his cheekbone. Mark pulled at his face for a moment, examining the gash, before realizing it was from the ring Roger wore.

It was a claddagh ring with green crystals in the heart, with the setting claws sharp enough to get someone cut. The irony being that Mark gave it to him.

 _Damn_. Did they even _have_ a first aid kit around here? Mark decided to check the drawers next to the sometimes-functioning microwave. Nothing.

 _Ah, fuck_. He looked like a MMA fighter after a bad round. At least it wasn’t infected or something. Why the hell did Roger have to punch him? Oh right, Mimi.

Fucking Mimi and Roger, and fucking Maureen and JoAnn. God, it blows. Why couldn’t he get a girl? _Well, not just any girl,_ Mark thought. Someone who makes his palms sweat and makes him drop his camera and stutter. Who gets his jokes and will kiss him like the only guy in the world.

Oh shit. He sounded like such a romantic little ass. No wonder he couldn’t find a girl. They’d go running in the other direction of they heard.

The phone rang, jarring Mark out of his thoughts. _Not getting it_ , he thought. _No way. Let the machine get it_.

“SPEEEK,” he and Roger said on the answering machine, making Mark want to throw it against the cement wall. Couldn’t he get away from his problems for one minute? Count it as a birthday present, not like anyone remembered.

“Hello? Mark? It’s the Wicked Witch of the West, your mother.” Kill him now. Please.

“Happy Birthday from Scarsdale, sweetie!” his mom’s chipper voice sing-songed. “I’m sure you’re out with your friends celebrating-”

Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. “-So I don’t want to clog your machine, what with all the other birthday messages you must be getting-”

Come on, just do it. Make this shitty ceiling cave in on his head. “-But your present is coming! Happy Birthday Sweetheart!”

The answering machine beeped and it was like he felt even shittier. If that was even possible.

All he wanted to do was film. His fingers started to twitch as he fought off the urge to jump on his bike and wheel through the city. It’s what he always did when life got screwy.

He couldn’t go. He was stronger than that. He wouldn’t go out. He wouldn’t go out. He wouldn’t--

Mark’s shoes were on, pea coat buttoned, and scarf tied in a second. He grabbed his camera and his bike and headed toward the door. When he turned, Mark thought to leave a note for Roger, but swore instead and locked the door behind him.

* * *

 

He didn’t own a hat. Which, in February in New York City, would probably be a problem, but Mark loved the wind through his hair as he whipped through the New York streets, so he hunched over the handlebars of his bike trying to get a good shot of the grumpy businessman yelling into his phone.

Whatever. Too oppressive artsy, he thought, stopping the rolling camera and locking his bike to the light pole on 14th. God he needed a caffeine fix. And something warm, he thought, tucking his camera under his arm and blowing into his hands. Scratch the hat. He needed to get a pair of gloves. And coffee. Not necessarily in that order.

Mark spun around the corner, looking for a coffee shop. What happened to a coffee shop on every corner? This was New York for fuck’s sake.

A neon coffee cup with the fluorescent spirals waving up came into Mark’s vision, and he bolted for the door.

“Large cup of coffee Dan,” he said when he reached the counter and recognized the lethargic man behind it.

“Get outta here Mark. Not unless you can pay,” Dan growled, barely looking up from his clearly-enthralling Norwegian novel.

“Dude, what is it? A buck-fifty?” Mark asked, pulling the bills from his pocket and slapping them on the counter. “Here. Keep the change.”

Dan rolled his eyes but complied, ambling toward the coffee urn and filling a large cup. “Here you go. Now piss off.”

“Back at you, dude,” Mark shot back, scanning for an empty chair. He found a booth instead.

It's much better to feel lonely when you can’t even fill a damn booth, he thought, grinning to himself and heading to the spied seat.

Unfortunately, this focus on the window booth narrowed his senses, which resulted in a head-on collision with another woman trying to merge into the aisle way.

“Oh my god, I am so so so sorry,’ the woman rambled, stooping to pick up Mark’s fallen coffee cup. “I swear to god I am not usually this uncoordinated. I swear!”

“I believe you,” Mark grinned, taking the cup from her.

“Let me buy you another cup of coffee,” the woman begged, dragging Mark back to the ordering counter. “Another of whatever he just got.”

Dan gave Mark a suspicious look, but poured the coffee anyway.

“Thank you,” Mark said, all the could muster up. People didn’t often offer to buy him coffee. People never did, to be exact. He looked up and took a better look at her.

She was short and expertly dressed, just like the blouses and skirts JoAnn always wore to work. Her hair was a hybrid between brown and blond, with the balance slightly in favor of brown. It was done up in wide curls and straight bangs which framed her face and strangely green eyes which were hidden behind thick box-frame glasses.

“It’s the least I can do after I knock your coffee out of your hand,” she smiled. “Now come sit with me.”

“No really, I couldn’t-” Mark’s face turned an appley red.

“No, sit. I insist,” she cajoled him, and he took the seat.

“Thanks.” Mark fidgeted in his seat.

“I’m Betsy, by the way.”

“Mark.” He put his camera on the table situated between them, tired of holding it under his arm.

“So you like film?” she asked, straining to start conversation.

Good, he thought. Something he could talk about and not freak right now.

“Yeah, a little. I like filming the everyday stuff, like people walking and cars on Broadway. And whenever Maureen had a show--” Damn. And he was trying not to get pissed. “--I usually film some of that. It tends to get interesting.”

“Maureen Johnson? You mean the woman who performs in warehouses?”

“Yeah. Strange you know her.”

“I saw some footage in the editing room when some guy filmed the police taking it down. The footage was great, even if the performance sucked. Lots of aerials. Artsy, but informative.”

“What do you mean, you saw that footage? I only gave it to Buzzline,” Mark commented.

“Oh, Buzzline sent us a copy. Wait, that was your footage?” Betsy asked.

“Yeah, Maureen’s one of my good friends.” Ex-girlfriend. But he wasn’t going to say that.

“Oh my god. I loved that footage. See, I work as an editor for Channel 4’s NBC News segments, so I see everything that comes through our doors. And yours was good.”

“Thanks,” Mark said, blushing. Betsy was pretty and cute, no doubt about it. And she thought he was good.

“What are you doing by yourself?”

“Oh, I was just getting some birthday footage. My friends forgot,” Mark said, then clapped his hand over his mouth. He shouldn’t have said that, he shouldn’t have said that.

“Oh my god it’s your birthday? And they forgot? That’s so upsetting,” Betsy empathized.

Then her pager beeped.

“Oops. That’s the crew. They probably have some new footage to get through,” she said, downing the rest of her coffee and sifting through her bag. “I have to go, but call me later so we can go out for dinner. No one should be alone on his birthday.”

She handed Mark a napkin with a phone number on it and “Betsy Carlton” with a little heart next to it.

“You’re really sweet, Mark,” Betsy said, before kissing his cheek and exiting the coffee shop, heels clacking.

Mark looked at the napkin.

Even if his friends did forget his birthday, even if Roger had punched him and Maureen had been bitchy, he had gotten Betsy. Even if everyone forgot, he still got a perfect present. And because of it, he would be able to face his next year. Because really, that was the point, wasn’t it?


End file.
